


Holmes and Watson - An Adult Childhood

by Miss_Rebecca_Watson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2083371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Rebecca_Watson_Holmes/pseuds/Miss_Rebecca_Watson_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THIS IS CURRENTLY BEING REWRITTEN AS MORE OF A JOHNLOCK SCENARIO, ON MY PAGE- Miss_Rebecca_Watson_Holmes. </p><p>(Following the finale of Series 3)<br/>Sherlock Holmes has been returned to England by the request of his brother, his exile has been revoked. England is in need of his help. Moriarty has suspiciously returned via a takeover of broadcasting in the whole of England, and Sherlock Holmes is the only man that can truly put England out of danger.<br/>After Sherlock's surprise return, he becomes absorbed in trying to stop Moriarty.  Mary Watson gives birth to a gorgeous baby girl, and John is taken to nearly full paternal duties. Gregg Lestrade is suddenly loaded with a large string of murders and decides to call on Sherlock for help. To his surprise there is a phone call with no answer, a flat with no presence and a John Watson with no Sherlock Holmes.<br/>John, desperately needing to find Sherlock with the fear that he is in danger, leaves Mary's side to go on the hunt.<br/>But as John gets closer to finding Sherlock, the truth about the Holmes' childhood are revealed to him. In shock and desperation, and the need to stop history repeating itself, John must find his hero.<br/>Some secrets are best left hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One - One Last Observation

He sighed, his breath leaving a foggy patch on the cabin window. He looked out at the city and across the green stretch of hills. He had his chin resting on his palm, eye fixed on the passing land that he called home. Down there were all the people that he loved and hated, all the memories, both good and bad, and the people he called family. A pang of sentiment swirled in the base of his throat, Sherlock pushed the feeling back down with a cough. He straightened, looking up at the cabin roof, legs crossed and eyes tightly closed. From any onlooker, like the man sat next to him, it would look like he was trying to hold back tears. Although if anyone had asked him, he would deny that small and insufficient theory indefinitely. The truth was, there were tears that pricked at his eyes, rimmed with a pale pink glow and glossy.

“Okay, maybe I have lost the game.” He mumbled, brushing one hand through his curly hair, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath, fists tightly closed, and retreated to staring out of the window.

“Sorry Sir, what did you say?” The man, looking curiously, let his eyes stroll up and down Sherlock, assessing him. He wore a black suit and white shirt, he shoes were scuffed and his brown hair messy.

“Nothing.” Sherlock turned to observe the man. “You shouldn't be on this flight you know, Mr. Rowlatt." He advised the now on edge man, who had turned to face him.

“How do you know my name?” flustered Alexander Rowlatt's face slowly turning a shade of red.

“Not only that, Alexander, but your pregnant fiancée is currently in labour. You woke up late this morning due to the fact your fiancée was complaining of severe back pain and unable to sleep last night. You dressed in a hurry - your tie is not straight, the cuff on one of your trouser legs is slightly turned up and your shirt is creased. You have recently moved, after work it seems, from to the fact you have worn your work shoes which are now scuffed and scratched from moving heavy objects like bookcases and chest of drawers. The wood shavings that seem to be caught in your laces are from the new fairly new room that is for your daughter. How daughter?Well that would be from the pink paint splodges caught in the edges of your nails and on your wrist. You have been worrying about your fiancée today after her back pains, and the very near due-date. Oh, and the way I know your fiancée is pregnant, the photo set as your background is of a photo of a baby scan. Now, I assume that child is yours, as it would be unusual to have a scan of a child that is your sisters, friends or others scan as a background. She is your fiancée. You have the note, 'set wedding date' written on the inside of your hand.” Sherlock took a large breath, staring at Mr Rowlatts now gawping mouth and wide unbelieving eyes. He smiled a sarcastic smile, and turned to look out the window once more.

“And that, Alexander, is just guessing.” He smiled to himself.

“Your a psychopath! A bloody lunatic! Are you even human?” He laughed. His facial expression was one of disbelief.

“A psychopath! How original.” He sighed sarcastically. He felt relieved, one last observation, before the expectant six month life span when he hit new ground.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of a phone stopped Sherlock's thoughts. He wondered who was calling, someone asking how the flight was going? Maybe it was Mycroft asking if he was 'being a good little boy'. Either way it didn't seem all that interesting, they were hardly going to turn the plane around and forget this all happened. This was set in stone.

“Sir, it's your brother.” Mr Rowlatt held the phone out, swallowing, eyes fixed in Sherlock's movements.

He took the phone, palm slightly sweating, and placed the phone up to his ear.

“Mycroft.”

“Hello little brother, how's the exile going?” The familiar voice asked sarcastically.

“I've only been gone four minutes.” Sherlock sighed, impatiently.

“Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson. As it turns out, your needed.” He called.

Sherlock went rigid, his lips tight and worried look bled across his face. “For God's sake, make up your mind!” He paused. “Who needs me this time?”

Their was a long pause, one that filled Sherlock with anticipation. Very faintly, in the background, he could here the words 'miss me' being repeated over and over again, as if on reel.

Mycroft responded. “England.”


	2. Chapter Two - The Game is On

When the plane touched down, the familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes climbed down the steps, greeted by the anxious but well awaited face of his brother.   
John and Mary, stood side by side next to Mycroft, had different expressions completely. John's face was smiling, but his eyes showed fear. Mary looked worried, her eyes wide and distracted, looking at the tarmac. She held John's hand with one of her own tightly, like gripping on for life, the other protectively around her baby bump.   
As Sherlock’s feet stepped onto the ground, Mycroft was already in front of him, arm out, guiding him the side to talk to to him personally.   
“Hello Sherlock, nice to see you home.” he smiled.  
“What’s happened?” Sherlock’s face was one of anticipation and interest.  
“We have had an – unexpected broadcast on every single channel in England.” He lead Sherlock to the black car, so he could see the broadcast on the small television installed into the car.

“Wha – I don't understand, he was dead! I watched him die!” He pulled himself out of the car and stepped backwards until he was away from his brothers grip. He was panic stricken, he hands tight in his hair, eyes wide with fast, shuddering breaths.

Upon the screen was Jim Moriarty's face, his chin moving comically like a wooden puppets mouth up and down, in time for the question 'miss me?' to ask in a distorted voice.

It had been nearly two and a half years since he watched Moriarty commit suicide on the top of St. Barts hospital. That meant he had thought he had been free from Moriarty's slow torture of the ones he loved to get at him, but apparently not. To save his friends, he had to fake his suicide for two years, and now had finally built up his friendship once again with John, but it felt like all the bad feelings and haunting memories where rushing back.

Sherlock turned to face John, his face one of shock, fear and confusion. John let Mary's hand slip from his, and walked slowly towards Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at John sympathetically.

“John, i'm sorry, I thought it was all over, I thought he was gone.” He rushed, apologetically.

“Sherlock, don't worry. It's okay. We can sort this out.” He was appreciative and understanding of the situation, but his head was filling with the memories that had kept him awake at night, of Sherlock falling again, over and over. The heart-wrenching feeling aching through his body once more, and he eyes seeping pained tears.

“No, John. No. It's not okay. I made you remember and I promised I wouldn't. I said that he was gone, I ensured you he was. I said you would be safe-”

“Sherlock, you said yourself, when Mary shot you, that I always choose danger. I'm attracted to it. So you can never say that I am safe. Never. You cannot blame this on yourself! You can't for-see what's going to happen can you?” John cried hysterically.

“Sherlock, I will help you. We will all help you.” John turned to face Mary, who was nodding her head at both John and Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at John, his face calculating just how well John could carry that through. The he looked at Mary's face, fear and memory threw twisted emotion at her face. Then he looked at her baby bump, and sighed sympathetically.

The wind had picked up where they still stood on the air field, Mary pulled her snug around her neck, and her coat tighter around her body. John stepped back to Mary, wrapping his arms around her shivering body, and kissing her forehead. He smoothed one free hand over the bump, and guided Mary towards the car.

“I'll get you all the information possible about this. I'll get you back to 221b and I will try to get the media to hold off about your return for a while.” Mycroft offered in hushed tones.  
“You are all we have at the moment Sherlock, you have the whole of England looking towards you. We will get you anything you need, if you can take this case for me.”

“You have to give extra protection and security to John and Mary, I don't want them to involved. They have their own things to worry about now, not this.” Sherlock sighed.

“Of course, that will be one of the first things put in place.” Mycroft ensured him.

“I don't want that child to have the childhood I had, Mycroft. I'm sure you can empathise.” His eyes had taken a darker tone, and he looked directly into Mycroft's.

“Well, we can do our best.” Mycroft took a defensive stature.

“How long can you hold the media off for?” Sherlock asked as he pulled his coat higher around his neck and made his way to the other car parked further down the runway.

Mycroft followed, umbrella in hand and coat, over his arm. “Roughly three hours at best. You know the media, anything they can do to get information they will.” He called sarcastically.

“I'll take it. I'll take the case.” Sherlock turned to face Mycroft, his face serious and determined.

“Thank you, brother. I am sure the whole of England will be eternally grateful.”

Sherlock climbed into the back seat of the car, Mycroft climbed into the front.

“Take us to 221b Baker Street.” Mycroft told the driver, and they pulled away from the jet and the dark, stormy runway.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, and typed in a text to John.

_**The Game is on. -SH** _

 


	3. Chapter Three - Returning To Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe things seem a bit rushed at the moment, but I will put this chapter through editing again! :)
> 
> Thank you for reading you lovely people, I really appreciate it. 
> 
> Rebecca x

The ride back to Baker Street was smooth, the city of London rushing past through the window, plump raindrops hitting the pavement in dark patches with brightly coloured umbrella's waving about in the wind. People ran along the busy walkways with bags above their heads, hair soaking wet and stuck to their faces, some stood under shop awnings for shelter, packed tight and uncomfortable. It came down fast and heavy, the windscreen wipers flicking the water back and forth off the window, it seemed to fall faster than it was wiped away. The sky was dark and the clouds were thickening, and thunder seemed to rumble somewhere in the distance.

“It seems like London has welcomed you back accordingly.” Mycroft chuckled.

“What a surprise.” Sherlock sighed. He had been messaging John, who was in the car behind, about his plan for the rest of the day. It went as follows;

**So you took the case then. -JW**

**_It would seem so. I guess this means I will be sticking around. -SH_ **

**Good. I'm sure Mrs Hudson will be glad to see you back. - JW**

**_Or she would have been glad to see the back of me, you mean. -SH_ **

**Oh shut up Sherlock. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. -JW**

**_Rude. -SH_ **

**England needs you now. It's about time you stopped being so.... childish. -JW**

_**Will you come round? I have tea. -SH** _

_**Oh, and probably biscuits. -SH** _

**Do you have Ice cream? -JW**

_**Why would you possibly want Ice cream on a day like this? -SH** _

**Mary. -JW**

The cars arrived outside 221b just as the rain started to hold up. Already there were some lonely and rather soaked photographers hanging under the shelter at Speedy's café, waiting to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's return.

Sherlock climbed out of the car, pulling up his collar and turning his head away from the flashing cameras. He knocked on the door of the flats, only to be opened by both Mrs Hudson and Lestrade in her shadow. He stepped in without any acknowledgement of either, followed by the apologetic Mary and John, who were leaving wet footprints on the hallway floor.

“Hi Graham, Mrs Hudson. Surprise return! Sorry, I have places to be, things to do!” Sherlock addressed them in a rush, heading for the stairs.

“It's Gregg. Gregg Lestrade!” Lestrade shouted at him.   
“Oh, sorry. Gregg. I'll remember it, Gregg.” He answered, apologetic.   
“Hi John, Mary, would you like some tea? He can be so rude.” Mrs Hudson flustered, walking to her kitchen.   
“That would be lovely, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.” John smiled, helping Mary remove her dampened coat.   
Lestrade apologised and disappeared upstairs to Sherlock’s flat.

Upstairs, Sherlock was sat at his desk, laptop open reading the latest news reports.

Lestrade entered, crouching down beside him, staring at the computer screen. There were two relevant pieces on the front of the Daily Mail. One read 'The king is back, is this a case for the fake genius to solve?' followed by a photo of a television showing the takeover, and the other title read as 'Mr Holmes returns to Baker Street”.  
Underneath the title was a photograph of himself, coat collar turned up and curls of black hair caught in the wind. Sherlock snapped shut the laptop, moving to his armchair.

“Seat?”Sherlock pointed at the chair that used to John's before he left, offering Lestrade rest.

“Thanks.” Gregg took the chair, sitting upright and awkward. “I'm guess the reason you are back is because of the broadcast?” Lestrade asked, although it was pretty clear to him that this was the right reason.

“So it seems.” Sherlock's answers seemed short. “Tea?”

“That would be great, thanks. I was just in the pub watching the football when it started to appear. I don't think I have ever left a pub that quickly in my life!” He laughed nervously.

Sherlock filled the kettle with water, and reached for two mugs from the cupboard. “Football? Why would you want to watch football?” Sherlock asked in a disgusted tone.

“Because, Sherlock, it's what I like to watch on my day off.” He sighed, stretching from the chair and strolling into the kitchen. “No offence, but isn't this kitchen a little less – busy – than usual?” Lestrade asked, looking at the clean, empty table.

“What?” Sherlock turned, looking down at the table. “She moved my things? My experiments! Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock rushed to the top of the stairs, shouting down.   
  
  


There was a rush of footsteps up the stairway, Mrs Hudson with a panicked look on her face.

“What? What is it Sherlock?!” She asked breathlessly.

“You moved my things?” He pointed at the table.   
“Is that it? I rushed up here for that? I moved them because you were gone.” She fussed with her hands, turning to go back down the stairs. Sherlock sighed, taking strides back to the unfinished tea.

He handed Lestrade a mug and settled back in his armchair. “The thing is, I saw him die. He took a gun to his mouth and shot, right in front of my face, holding my hand. I saw the blood.” Sherlock sat up straight, thinking.

John had appeared now, sat on the sofa, listening. “Sherlock, if I remember correctly, you came back from the dead several times. Don't rule out the possibility of faking his death.” John chimed in.

Sherlock turned to look at him, smiling. “Don't worry, I haven't.”

They sat in awkward silence until John broke in, “So, Gregg, how are you?”

“I'm good thank you John, it was my day off, cut short but that couldn't be helped. Yourself?” Lestrade answered.

“I'm good thank you.”

“It's getting close to the due date now isn't it?” Lestrade enquired.

“Yes, about three weeks now until she arrives.” John smiled.

“Wow, lucky you. Excited I’m guessing?” Lestrade seemed interested now.

“Definitely. Mary is ecstatic, but she exhausted now. Specially with all this stress at the moment.” John coughed, he looked at the floor, dragging his feet across the floorboards.

Lestrade, watched John, then turned to look at Sherlock, who was now curled up on the sofa, either sulking or thinking.

“I think I better go. I'll be a St. Barts if you need me tomorrow.” Lestrade stood, talking his coat from the wooden coat stand, waving his hand at John as a way of goodbye, to which John stood out of politeness and watched him leave.

“Don't talk I’m thinking.” Sherlock spoke with a hushed voice from his curled up figure on the armchair.

“I'll go to then.” John sighed and got up from the sofa, walking towards the doorway.

“I have made Mycroft raise the security around your house, for the baby's sake.” Sherlock informed him.

“Oh, thank you.” John answered, slightly surprised, and made his way down the stairs.

As soon as John had left, Sherlock got up and shut the front door. He walked to his bedroom, and slumped, fully dressed onto his bed. He fell asleep not long after, with the memory of Moriarty's face stuck in his head.

 

 


	4. A/N - Hi!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, there will be another chapter posted soon, I just need to finish editing it.  
> Thank you all again for giving this read, I hope you like it! I don't think I have realised just how difficult writing a fanfiction was.  
> I'm trying my best!
> 
> You will probably see more notes from me, so Hi!  
> I'm Rebecca Louise Evans, I'm 17, and I'm from the rainy place called England. 
> 
> I hope you are all having a fantastic day!
> 
> If you have any advice or thing you think I should consider changing, or any ides, please don't hesitate to comment, I appreciate it!
> 
> Thanks again, Rebecca x
> 
> I HAVE FINISHED WRITING CHAPTER 4, BUT MY LAPTOP HAS DIED. SORRRRY!! It will be on asap! :)

 

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. **\- Arthur Conan Doyle**

 

_Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/a/arthur_conan_doyle.html#TZTDZ2Y9duPZ5qvy.99_


	5. Chapter Four - A Rude Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I finally got my laptop charger! So here is Chapter Four!  
> Enjoy.
> 
> Becca x

 

When he woke, it was dark outside. The curtains were wide open, and the orange glow from the street lights illuminated the room, casting dark shadows across the walls. It was cold, even though the bedsheets were a crumpled mess and around his body. His shoes were thrown across the carpet, and his suit jacket folded over the base of his bed. He climbed off the mattress, stretching, and pulled off his shirt, revealing his pale muscled back and shoulders, followed by his suit trousers, which he replaced with grey sweatpants. He wrapped himself in his bed sheet, and padded into the dark kitchen. Knocking the kettle on, he placed a mug on to the surface clumsily. The water started to steam, and he walked around the empty table to a chair. He sat, and the orange light that seeped from the open bedroom doorway and glowed across Sherlock's face making visible the rough mop of curls that stuck up from his sleep.

“Hello Sherlock.” The familiar but unexpected voice of Mycroft sent shivers down his back.

“Hello Mycroft. I guess from this rude awakening you have the information I need?” He asked, voice rough and deep. He got up from the chair, and picked a teabag out of the jar and dropping it into the mug, carelessly.

“Yes. I have the full file on Moriarty.” Mycroft slid the brown file onto the oak desk with one black, gloved hand, which he then placed back into his lap.  
Sherlock poured the water into the mug, and left it to brew on the side. He walked towards Mycroft, then stopped dead in his tracks.

“Your in my seat.” He glared at him. The bed sheet slipped down his arm, revealing his toned shoulder. He grabbed at it, pulling it up to cover his skin and held it tight.  
With a sigh of effort, Mycroft removed himself from the fading armchair and stood, weight resting on his trust umbrella, and held his free hand out offering his brother his seat.  
Sherlock sat down, sinking into the pillows, and pulled his knees up to rest his feet on the arm of the chair.  
“Thank you.” Sherlock sneered. He pulled the file off the desk behind him, studying the cover.  
'CLASSIFIED' was stamped in red ink, below that “MRTY/BROADCAST 473122' was written in back marker pen. Paper-clipped to the corner was a note written on A5 lined paper. It read;

'Case transferred to Consulting Detective Mr Sherlock Homes with immediate effect. Directed by Mr Mycroft Homes.' below that, Mycroft's signature.

“I had this set to you. I am in control of the case, but I make the decisions, reluctantly, by what you feel is necessary.” Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock fingered the corner of the cover, considering whether to brace the information now, or to wait till morning. “What time is it?” He stared at the file as he asked.

“11.42” Mycroft answered, flicking his wrist to view his watch. “Can I turn a light on in here?” Mycroft asked, but without time for an answer he was already fumbling for the lamps light switch. Suddenly the room was filled with a bright, harsh light, causing both brothers to gasp in shock and shield their eyes.  
“Mycroft! Turn it down!” Sherlock hissed, pulling the cover over his eyes like a child hiding from a horror movie.

Mycroft fumbled with the knob on the light stand, lowering it to a bearable standard.

“What are you trying to do? Blind us and wake the whole street?” Sherlock complained. He was definitely awake now, if not by the presence of Mycroft, then by the blinding light that had left coloured patches dancing in his vision.  
He pulled open the file to reveal several wads of stapled paper, worksheets, photocopies of handwritten notes and two disks in a plastic wallet. Tucked between the wads of paper was an envelope labelled 'CLASSIFIED PHOTOGRAPHY'. Sherlock swallowed slowly, sliding the envelope back in between the papers, shut the file and slid it back onto the table.

“Everything you should need on Moriarty is in that folder. Anything else I find I will drop off a copy to you. I should be going now. It's rather late.” Mycroft picked up his umbrella and strolled towards the door. He halted, hand on the door knob and looked at the carpet, “Oh, and one more thing, little brother. I have improved the security on this place as as well as John and Mary.” He opened the door and slid out silently, leaving Sherlock sat with the glow of the lamp, eyes on the folder and fingers tapping rhythmically on his well defined chin.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, to be greeted by early morning sunshine creeping through the curtains when he opened them again. He blinked, the room still hazy, and yawned. He stretched his arms out from underneath the cover high above his head, and looked around the room. His cup was gone from side, and instead there was a tray of tea on the kitchen table. He sighed, pushing off the sofa and walked to pour himself a mug of the tea. Walking towards the desk, his phone vibrated across the table. He grabbed it, looking at the screen, it was a text from John.

Morning. I have the day off, do you want to come around? -JW

He placed the phone back on the table, and sat on the chair in front of his laptop. He switched it on, took a large gulp from his mug and picked up the case folder. He pulled out the wallet containing the CD's, and the envelope containing the photographs. While the laptop fired up, he opened the envelope, and pulled out the glossy sheets. He looked down at the first photo, and the familiar face of Moriarty looked up at him. It was a photograph taken at his trial. The smile of his face was daring and sarcastic. He looked at the second photo, of Moriarty driving the taxi that had given Sherlock a lift. The photos, one after another, brought back memories of confrontations with him, until the last photograph of Moriarty led on the ground, smile across his face, eyes closed, placid skin and blood around his head. Sherlock dropped the photos, closing his eyes, and breathing slowly.

He took another slug of his tea, and inserted one of the CD's into the laptop disk drive. The screen lit up with the broadcast. Moriarty's face filled the screen, and Sherlock watched intently.

When the broadcast had finished, he removed the CD and placed it back in the wallet and into the folder.

He picked up his phone and sent a reply to John.

_I'll be over at ten. I have planned what we are doing today already. -SH_

He glanced at the time on his phone. It was already 9.20 am, so he walked to the bathroom, and started to run the bathwater, leaving it to bubble he picked out his clothes. Purple shirt, black jacket, black trousers. “Where are my shoes?” He asked himself, stumbling around his room. “There!” He cheered when he eventually found them. He undressed, and climbed carefully into the warm bath water.

When he finally reached John and Mary's, after fighting with the thick crowd of journalists and photographers, shouting questions about his return and Magnussen. With no attempt at answering, he rushed through and jumped straight into a cab.

He had file in hand and hair waving in the wind, it was exactly ten. He knocked on the door, with no answer. So he fumbled for the spare key he had been given secretly by Mary, and unlocked the door, letting himself in.

“John?” Sherlock called out, kicking his shoes off in the porch. As he walked in, he was hit with a cold breeze. “John, are you okay?” He shivered, striding down the hallway to the kitchen. The back door was wide open, and John was in the garden, digging.

“What on earth are you doing John?” Sherlock stood in the doorway, staring, at John, who's trousers were fairly covered in mud. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were red, and he looked as if he was shivering. “It's freezing!” Sherlock sighed enthusiastically. John stood up, leaving the spade stuck upright in the mud, and walked to the door. He pushed off his wellies and shut the door behind him.

“I was digging.” John answered him.

“That couldn't have been more obvious could it?” Sherlock laughed.

“I was considering planting something.” John looked at Sherlock, with a 'don't act as if i'm stupid' look.

“Nothing will grow this close to winter.” Sherlock gave him the advice, shook off his coat and stepped into the hallway one more. It was mainly cream, a floral, beige patterned border sat half way down the wall. The floor was wood, and the stairway that led off was decorated with little white fairy lights. Sherlock screwed his nose up in disgust, and turned to look at John.

“Mary decorated this one, not me.” John pointed to the little oak table holding a pot of pale pink and cream roses. Sherlock crouched next to them, giving them a sniff, and stood.  
“Perfumed.” Sherlock announced as he hung his coat of one of the golden hooks attached to the back of the front door.

“Coffee?” John offered as walked towards the kitchen. Sherlock followed, folder gripped tightly in one of his hands.  
“That would be lovely.” Sherlock smiled, as he pulled out one of the tall stools that accompanied the dark granite breakfast bar.  
John pulled out the opposite chair, “What's that then?” John pointed at the folder still tight in Sherlock's grasp.  
“Oh, this?” Sherlock dropped the file on to the worktop and pushed it towards John. “Information.”

John opened the folder and pulled out the envelope, sliding the top photograph of Moriarty into his hand. Oh god.” John placed the photography on the surface, eyes closed. “I was not expecting that.” John stood, bracing the worktop as he made his way to the kettle.

Sherlock grabbed the photo, then let it drop again. “Sorry, I forgot that was on top.” Sherlock shoved the photo back into the envelope.

John returned to his seat with two cups of coffee, passing one to Sherlock. “You could have warned me.”

“How's Mary?” Sherlock asked, warming his hands on the cup.

“She is okay, just shopping with some friends. Struggling with aches though.” John smiled. “The baby keeps kicking. It's odd.” John sighed.

“But you're a doctor. Surely you have felt a baby kicking before?” Sherlock asked inquisitively.

“It's different this time. This is my baby. Our baby.” John was excited. Sherlock could tell from not only the large smile across his face, but also the glisten in his eyes.

 


	6. Chapter Five - Baby Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, sorry this has been put on late, and sorry that this chapter is short, but it is important.   
> Thank you for reading, and for the kudos! 
> 
> Rebecca x

The living room was filled with paper and plastic bags and cardboard boxes, baby magazines and brochures were piled high on the glass coffee table, and one of the two sofas adorning the large room was partly covered with a pile of neutral coloured baby clothes and a large stuffed teddy bear. Around the dark brown bears neck was a cream ribbon, tied into an equal looped bow.

Sherlock looked around in confusion at the collection that had consumed the once pristine and modern room.

“What's all this John?” Sherlock asked, picking up the bear and inspecting the tag attached to his ear.

“Bits for the baby. Clothes, toys, nappies, that sort of thing.” John moved a pile of baby clothes off one of the sofa. “Sit down?” John offered Sherlock a seat. John reached for a book from the table, the cover was cream covered with a print of silver bears. In the centre, 'BABY' was handwritten in a black, curly font.   
“A baby book. That's sweet.” Sherlock looked down at the book in Johns lap. John turned the first page to reveal, on the first page, a strip of baby scan photographs. The blurred, misshapen and barely recognisable photographs showed John and Mary's baby. Sherlock was slowly coming to realise, which he wished he could deny, that the small human on those photographs was soon to take over John and Mary's life, and John would no longer have time to see Sherlock. Sherlock was lost, without any concentration on what John was babbling on about, in a mindset that was gloomy and lonely, and filled Sherlock with a feeling of fear and abandonment. When he finally fell back to reality, John's hand was holding Sherlock's arm, asking him what was wrong. Sherlock coughed, turning to face John with a forced smile.  
“I'm fine.” He patted John's arm with his free hand. “Just thinking.” Sherlock smiled, looking down at the ground.

“Well?” John asked, looking at Sherlock expectantly.   
“Well what?” Sherlock responded, confused.  
“Will you, for Mary and I, be an uncle to our child?” John asked, hope glistened in his eyes.  
The question seemed to have the same effect on Sherlock as John asking him to be best man. He blanked out, his mind running through all the reasons that John and Mary could possibly want him to be there baby's uncle. “John -”

“Look, I know it's a big ask, but you seem like the only person I can think is suited for this.” John explained.

“John, why me?” Sherlock sighed. “I mean, I am not exactly a good example to look up to, am I?”

“You are a perfect example. Just less of the sulking and getting yourself in awkward situations and you are just what he needs!” John joked.

“But, John, he shouldn't know me, or learn anything from me. You don't understand how dangerous I could be to him!” Sherlock brushed a panicking hand through his hair.   
“Sherlock, calm down. If you don't want to be just say.” John answered softly.  
“No, I do, just remember that I warned you.” Sherlock sighed. “I'd love to be an uncle.”

A small and honest smile crept onto Sherlock's face.

 


	7. Chapter Six - First Signs

The day seemed to escape unnoticed to Sherlock, who's mind was elsewhere as he led on the sofa, eyes closed and hands brought together underneath his chin. John's question had stuck with him, playing around in his head. He had left John and Mary's, with the excuse of needing to go to St. Barts, only to travel home and absorb himself in thought. He pictured John and Mary, stood in a park. A child ran around, climbing on the climbing frame, then running to show John a leaf he had found on the floor. John crouched to look at leaf, and the child planted a kiss on his cheek, and ran off again to play. Mary stood nearby, watching. Then he pictured himself in that scene, the weather had turned moody, and thick clouds had smothered the blue sky. Thick droplets of rain splashed heavily across the ground, and the child was hidden behind his fathers leg, tears streaming down his face and whimpering coming from his trembling lips. His father, one hand tenderly on the child's head, the other out towards Mary. He was shouting, hand gesturing angrily at her, she stood, shouting back at him. Then she crouched down, calling to the child, who cowered away from it's mother and gripped its fathers hand, trembling. He stood, an onlooker, watching the familiar scene play out. Then, the child ran to him, arms outstretched, wanting comfort and safety from him.

When the door opened with a loud thump, and heavy quickened footsteps braced the stairs, Sherlock awoke from his state and stood, on guard.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade panted as he reached the living room.

“Lestrade. Got something for me?” Sherlock answered, already pulling his Belstaff jacket on to his arm.

“Yes, Regent's Park at the Triton Fountain.” Lestrade made his way towards the steps, Sherlock in his shadow. “Woman, 21, found about an hour ago by a couple who's child had decided to climb into the water – leaving one traumatised child.” Lestrade sighed.

“The child doesn't matter.” Sherlock snapped. “How is the woman?”

“Well, dead.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade's sarcastic response. “She seems to have a blow to the head. Name's Jessica Dale, a student at London Metropolitan. Room mates called the police to say that she had not come back to the apartment, but it was not filed as missing persons as she was only reported four hours after they had noticed her missing. Her parents have been told, and are on their way up now.” Lestrade informed him.

~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~

The woman was face down in the dirt, under the bushes that sat opposite the fountain. Her unnatural position hinted that she hadn't fallen here, but she had been placed. Her T-shirt was splattered in deep red blood spots, her hair was matted in her blood. Along her arms were pressured bruises, deep purples and blues. Sherlock slid his hand into the examination gloves and flexed his fingers. He pressed lightly on her skin, examining the bruises. “These bruises are from fingertips. They have grazes within them, from forced movement.” He took a step closer peering through his magnifying lens. Thin black fibres were caught in the grazes. “They used gloves. Not cotton gloves though, as there is not enough fibre, more likely to be expensive leather gloves with visible stitching on the edges of the fingers. To break the skin with gloves on it must have taken some force.” Sherlock moved to inspect the top of the victims head. The skin was cut deeply several times, each had traces of gravel and glass. “The victim has been hit several times around the head, but it looks like-” Sherlock inspected the area again. Another cut, partially healed, was very nearby. “-she has been hit here before. Can you get someone to question the room mates. Ask them if she has been meeting up with anyone recently, a love interest, a new friend.” Sherlock pulled up the right arm of the victims t-shirt, to reveal raised bumps of skin, each with obvious injection marks. “We are looking for someone who likes to purchase recreational drugs.” Sherlock took a deep breath, swallowed, his forehead beading with sweat. He sighed and looked out across the park. Recreational drug abuse, although extremely familiar to Sherlock, was not his strong point.

“She has been drugged, several times. Injected, by someone else.” Sherlock called out to Lestrade.

“How can you tell?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sighed. Sarcastically he responded. “She has track marks on the back of her right arm.” Sherlock inspected both of her hands, and the skin around the joint of the thumb. Her right hand was more calloused and dry than the other.

“How do you know she didn't inject herself?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock turned to see Lestrade imitating injecting himself in the back of his right arm. “It seems pretty simple.” He explained.

“What is simple, is your mind!” Sherlock snapped.

“Watch it Holmes or I will get you kicked off this scene. They are already not happy with your involvement.” Lestrade warned him.

Sherlock sighed. “She is dominant with her right hand. Therefore it is the one that will be stronger. Now can you explain how she injected herself in the right tricep with her right hand?”   
Sherlock inspected her jeans, they were covered with bits of gravel, and the back belt loop was ripped. Sherlock looked at the threads that were frayed and snapped. “She fell, probably from a drugged haze, to a gravelled area. She was then yanked from the floor, supposedly, by the back loop of her jeans.”

Sherlock stood, and walked away from the body.

“Is that it? Is that all you got?” Lestrade looked shocked and desperate.

“I need to think about this. She needs some tests done. I will send the information to St. Barts, make sure her body is taken there.” Sherlock answered, peeling back the gloves.

“Okay, Sherlock. Don't let me down.” Lestrade gripped Sherlock's arm lightly. “I'm trusting you.” Sherlock shrugged off Lestrade's hand and walked away, pulling up the collar of his jacket. “Do I ever let you down, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock called back, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“It's good to see you back on the case, Holmes.” Lestrade shouted after him.

A small and satisfied smile crept onto Sherlock's face as he left Regent's Park.

 


	8. Chapter Seven - Fire in her eyes

“Mary?” John held the front door open with his shoulder as he carried, hands full, bags full of shopping.

“John?” Mary looked confused as she waddled out of the kitchen, and laughed at John's contorted body, holding heavy bags and trying to keep the door open. “Let me help you!” She laughed, hands on the handles of some of the shopping bags.

“No, Mary. You will hurt yourself. Hold the door instead?” John sighed.

“John honey, you need to stop worrying! People do a lot more than I do when they are pregnant. Believe me!” She hissed, holding the door open with one arm, and ruffling the John's hair with the other. He pulled in the bags, letting Mary shut the door. “Tea?” Mary asked, waddling back into to the kitchen, with one hand on the curve of her back.

“I'd love some.” John ached. He dragged the bags into the kitchen, as Mary poured the already boiled water into two mugs. He stared sliding the cans into the cupboards, and packing the frozen food into the freezer.

“Sit down a minute!” Mary patted the sofa alongside her, mugs on the corner table. John joined her, kissing Mary as he sat down, then kissing the bump. He leant against Mary, encompassed by her arm.

“I missed you today.” John muffled into Mary's arm, eyes closed and breathing calm.

“I missed you too, but it was your day off. I hope you did more than miss me all day.” She calmly joked.

“I did.” John sighed.  
“What did you do?” Mary asked, yawning. She took a sip from her tea, realising it was too hot on her tongue placed the mug back on the table.  
“I did some gardening.” John answered sleepily, “and spoke to Sherlock.”

“And what did he say?” Mary asked, a concerned look in her eye.  
“Yes. Reluctantly.” John sighed. “He said he would be a bad influence.”

“Well, I think he is just what he needs.” Mary smiled.

John sat up, looking at Mary. “You want our child to become a socially awkward sociopath?” John looked confused.  
“No, you know that isn't what I meant, John.” Mary flustered. “You make it sound you wouldn't want Sherlock to be an Uncle for our child!” Mary raised her voice.  
“You know that I do, but I am having trouble with the fact he was reluctant.” John looked at the floor, his toes playing with the corner of the rug.  
“Sherlock is probably worried about the safety of our child. With parent's like us we already attract it.” Mary sighed, standing up.

“Mary, why do you always seem like you don't want this child?” John stood, and stormed back into the kitchen and to the fridge.  
“What do you mean? I _love_ this child!” Mary cried, shocked.  
“Do you though, Mary? Because you brush me away when we talk about anything to do with the baby. I do _all_ the shopping for baby clothes, _I_ buy the baby books, help books, remind and persuade you to go to scans! You _rarely_ let me kiss your bump unless you are in a reasonable mood, and you seem completely unattached!” John reached for a beer can out of the fridge, opened the top and took a big swig.

“I'm not doing this, John. I am not having this argument with you.” Mary stormed across the kitchen to the pantry, and started searching.

“Exactly. You have just proved my point.” John cried, slamming his can onto the counter. A small puddle of spilt beer bubbled at the base of the can.

“John, this is your baby. Yes you want this baby more than me. I am scared.” Mary placed a hand on her forehead, covering her eyes, the other on a ledge of the pantry. “I am scared because I don't know anything to do with children, John.” her voice broke.

“Then let me help you. Let me show that it's okay.” John walked to the pantry, speaking softly and sympathetically. “I want to help you.”

“I don't want your help John.” Mary voice was on edge.  
“But love, isn't that what I'm here for?” John placed one hand on Mary's shoulder.

Mary turned, anger in her eyes, she walked towards John. “I said I _don't_ want your help! I don't _need_ _your_ help!”Mary's hand sliced the air, and hit John's face. “I especially don't need your _sympathy_!!” She slapped John once again.  
John backed away, a tear slipping from his eye. “Mary....” John sighed, looking at her fiery face.

“Leave me alone. Go!” Mary took a threatening step towards John. He coward, leaving the room swiftly, tears falling fast from his eyes. He grabbed his coat and shoes and opened the front door. He turned to take one last look at his wife.

“Don't expect me home.” John informed her. There was no love in his voice, just pain.

“Wait, John, wait!” Mary was now crying, tears falling thick and fast as she entered the hallway. John turned, stepping out of the doorway in his socks. “ John...” Mary sighed, gripping the banister crying hysterically.

John shut the door, and walked away from his home. 


	9. Chapter Eight - Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I haven't been on in AGESSSSSS.  
> But I have adjusted Chapter Eight, and split it into two chapters.  
> I hope you like it, and if you don't mind, I would really appreciate your comments or kudos! 
> 
> Thanks,   
> Lots of love  
> Rebecca xx

Above Baker Street, the night sky was wide awake. Within its deep blue silken look, you could find no imperfection. Upon it, little stars like candle-flames flickered in and out of focus, disappearing and re-appearing, like a very soft breeze was had temporarily put them out. The moon, whole and clear, watched the earth; its crevices and mountains visible from the ground.   
                John watched the stars dancing as he clumsily stumbled down Baker Street, stopping only to place his half-full beer can on the pavement. His mobile rang out in its melancholic tone to him; he pulled it out of his pocket, and threw it to the ground, conveniently outside 221B. John squinted at the door, trying to read the numbers that only looked like smudged white chalk to him. He leaned forward ready to knock, only then to slide down the door to the step, with his cheek stuck to the black paint. He groaned, wavering in out of consciousness in his drunken stupor.   
                “Sherlll..” he slurred, eyes closed and lips dampened. He raised his voice slightly as he called out, “Holvesss”. A distressed and confused look crossed his face as he struggled to stand, head spinning. A sickness was swirling at the pit of his stomach. He tried to straighten his coat, and with his hands braced on the wall either side, he kicked the door with his steel toed boot. The noise was louder than he expected – groaning he tripped backwards down the doorstep with wide eyes.

A couple passed huddled together in their thick winter coats, shielding themselves from the cold winds that whistled down the street. The man stepped forward to catch John, his face illuminated by the orange glow of a street. John rather over-dramatically jumped away from his strong arms and looked angrily at the owner.   
                “Are you okay? Do you need me to call you a taxi?” The woman asked, reaching to the ground to retrieve John’s scratched phone. As John opened his mouth to answer, the door of 221B opened, revealing a rather pissed-off Sherlock in his dressing gown, purple shirt and suit trousers, who walked out into the street and returned into the warmth of his flat with John on tow.   
                Mrs Hudson as sat on the sofa, wrapped in a floral dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers firmly on her feet. As Sherlock let go of John’s arm in the safety of 221B, he stood straight and formal staring into Johns eyes.   
                “Where the hell have you been?” Sherlock boomed at him, face pale and eyes red with lack of sleep.   
                “Umm..” John had one finger to his mouth comically, like a little sarcastic child.   
                “John.” Sherlock pushed John into his chair. “I’m very sorry Mrs Hudson for your very rude awakening. I can assure you it will not happen again.” Sherlock faced Mrs Hudson and smiled an infuriated smile. She stood, walking over to Sherlock, and planted a small kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight you two.” She turned to walk out “Thank you Sherlock.”  
                Sherlock stood for a moment, breathing heavily and eyes closed. He moved to sit opposite John, who had already fallen into a deep sleep. His snores filled the room and cleared the lonely feeling that had been bugging him away. He watched John, tracing his eyes and nose with his own eyes, and stopped, face turning a shade of grey as he saw the deep scratch and purple bruise that had bloomed across his cheekbone. Underneath John’s eyes he could see the stress lines and tender skin from tears, which was rare for him.    
                He sighed once again, a tight feeling pulled at his chest, which he swallowed back down. John looked comfortable, so Sherlock tucked a thick fleece blanket over his body, and made his way to bed.


	10. Hi guys!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I know it has been soooo long since I was last on here, writing, and I apologise for that. But, I am going to rewrite this and do my best to finish it! So to take a look at the rewrite (I promise it will be better!)

❤ Please visit the new rewrite on my page! It is called 'Holmes and Watson' as I am yet to get a fitting name! ❤ I will do my best to finish this one! Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks, it means a lot! Lots of love! Rebecca xxx ❤


	11. Chapter 11

So the first chapter of the rewrite is up! Please take a look, it has been improved!


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